


Ceasefire

by marmota_b



Series: Painkiller [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Study, Czech Republic - Freeform, Czech countryside, Gen, Hiking, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 10:20:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5202218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmota_b/pseuds/marmota_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a strange two weeks. Without any rush, odd missions, or enemies coming out of the woodwork, it was one of the strangest two weeks of Frank’s life. Suddenly, he had to focus on completely different things.<br/>He expected a goal, he expected difficulties, he expected breathtaking landscape or at least bad weather. Instead, he got a leisurely (if thorough) hike in warm summer days that were not too hot.</p><p>"We just wander around, you know. I’ve always wanted to see more of the Highlands, but going off to one place for one day isn’t really so worth it,” Adam said.<br/>“Wouldn’t you want to see more of Europe now that you’re here?”<br/>For a few moments, Frank didn’t know what to say, and then realised this definitely wasn’t what American tourists normally did when they got to visit Europe, and managed “I am seeing more of it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ceasefire

**Author's Note:**

> In the series and AU I'm writing, this part should be preceded by the story of how Frank and Methos met on Sicily. But there are still big chunks of plot missing from that one, while this one is more character-based, atmospheric, and most importantly, finished. Aside from the question of "how did they meet and end up here", I think it can stand on its own.
> 
> It's a bit experimental. I think I would like to know how it worked.

It was a strange two weeks. Without any rush, odd missions, or enemies coming out of the woodwork, it was one of the strangest two weeks of Frank’s life. Suddenly, he had to focus on completely different things.

They went by train to a station about an hour east of Prague; they got off with a crowd of tourists, but instead of following their trail to the UNESCO protected sites, they hopped on a small diesel train that stopped right at the edge of the station and then backtracked, taking a turn to a different railroad. They took off on the second stop, to walk away from the town; following a narrow creek and looking at the cathedral from a distance through ivy-covered branches.

Later, in the fields beyond the town and the river valley, they could still see the cathedral when they turned back. It was like a signal tower in the flattening landscape behind them. Ahead, the land was rolling up.

It was a strange two weeks of nearly no apparent place to go; fields and forests, last year’s leaves and naked roots under their feet, and sometimes rocks and rushing creeks. Sometimes they crossed railroad tracks, two solitary lines of metal like those that had brought them to the edge of the first town, and sometimes they went through quiet villages of a kind Frank was not familiar with.

There were village greens and fishponds, houses of solid brick and stone covered in plaster and red roofs on top, churches and chapels, and sculptures of saints in the centre of villages. Large-crowned and thick-trunked linden trees in every settlement. There was the smell of manure; sometimes people kept goats and sheep in their back gardens and almost always grew bright-coloured flowers at the front of their houses. And more often than not, there were barking dogs, but also cats walking the streets and hunting in the fields at the edges of the villages. Sometimes, the gardens were fenced with link fences atop low walls, the wire painted bright colours, and often the paint was peeling.

Wayside crosses. Gnarled old fruit trees; they snatched cherries from the side of the road when Adam deemed it backwater enough for the cherries to be reasonably safe for Frank. Rows of electricity poles and wires along the roads and in the fields, very different from those in the US. A tall chimney with a stork’s nest on top; Adam pointed at the young like an eager child. Spruce forests and pines, moss and fern. Stacks of timber. They criss-crossed the Highlands north and south, north and south. Later on, further on into the hills and into the two weeks, there were log houses, walls striped with dark, dark wood and blindingly white lime between. An old polygonal barn. This part of the country offered for his consideration weatherworn wooden fences with colourful upturned mugs on the tops of the pickets (inexplicable and ever-present): far from the neat white picket fence of American dreams, but somehow a dream in its own right. Heather and curious star-shaped thistle-like flowers sitting close to the ground: Adam said the root could be eaten, but shouldn’t, because it was a protected species. They slept under the stars, without a tent, with only a tarpaulin as backup; this Frank ascribed to his companions’ ages. The weather was good, so he did not mind. There was a fox passing by one night. Sometimes they made a fire. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they picked blueberries and mushrooms and sometimes they didn’t: because there were protected areas, too. Sometimes they hopped on a bus to take them a bit further, but most of the time they didn’t.

What did he really know about Europe? Not much. Not the things that mattered to people who lived there: he would not have considered it a shortcoming, but it was – how can you protect that which matters, distinguish those who would willingly destroy it, if you do not know what matters? He had fought European organised crime, but known next to nothing before this enterprise. The more he knew now, the more he knew he knew nothing.

Passing strangers on the marked paths every now and then, smile and say “dobrý den.” So many people out in the forests, just to walk. They were ordinary forests. Tame. No wild beasts. No wild undergrowth. Neat paths marked every now and then on trees, poles, stones, fences, with three stripes of paint: white, color, white; every decimal of a kilometre was accounted for on the signposts. Colored paths in Adam’s green hiking maps. Human order imposed on wilderness. No big challenges here. And yet...

 

* * *

 

“Where’s the Watcher, anyway?” Duncan said one day out of the blue.

“I think we lost him somewhere after Golčův Jeníkov,” Adam replied cheerfully and jumped over a narrow spring. “They should have learned by now to send someone better at hiking after you.”

“Who?” Frank asked, and they explained.

“Great,” he said when they finished. “So now they’ve got records of me, too?”

“It’s not like they have any idea who you are,” Adam retorted. “I told you already; they don’t really care about the likes of you.”

 

* * *

 

The first three days, Frank was antsy. After Prague, he could not get used to this. He expected a goal, he expected difficulties, he expected breathtaking landscape or at least bad weather. Instead, he got a leisurely hike in warm summer days that were not too hot. Buying food and drink in small village shops that carried everything. Adam and Duncan sampled local beers; Frank usually turned to Kofola, because in the spirit of this whole exercise, whatever it was, Adam had expressly forbidden him from buying international, and the sight of the local colourful cheap sodas appalled him. (Kofola was like Cola, but less sweet, with liquorice to boot, and he quickly became a fan.) Sometimes they stopped for a bowl of goulash or a similar warm, filling meal in a pub.

What was the point? He did not know until the fourth day, and even after that he was not sure. On the fourth day, they arrived to their first destination. It was an establishment belonging to a church – a camp with four long low houses with doors at the end and rows of windows at the sides. They would be staying there for one night. There was a meadow sloping down towards the forest. People sitting in the sun. Smiles, welcomes and questions. Families with children. An old brass ship bell hanging at the corner of one of the houses was sounded and everyone streamed inside. “You’ve come just in time for dinner,” the man who had welcomed them said, smiling. Adam knew him and they had been expected.

Tables and benches: it was quite humble, but solid. Squeezing in next to some children. The oldest son, about twelve, proudly tried to talk to him in English, Frank tried his very limited Czech on him, and neither of them understood the other completely in either Czech or English. As far as Frank could tell, the boy was telling him how old he was, where he was from, how many siblings he had and what had been for lunch that day. What Frank told him followed similar lines of conversation. A song of prayer was sung; Frank did not understand a word of it and did not sing. Then they sang Amazing Grace and as much as Frank wished to be left out, he could not but join in when they took the trouble. At each table, a person rose to bring pitchers of drink. Insipid sweet tea: Adam called it evangelical tea and laughed. The pastor (the man was a pastor) said it used to be worse. There was some inside joke Frank did not catch; neither did Duncan, apparently. Then they stood in line for dinner, handed out from a window; a rice dish that was called, but definitely wasn’t, risotto. Despite that shortcoming, it was very good.

Duncan was easily, charmingly, conversing with anyone who spoke enough English, German or Russian (most preferred English and German), answering questions about himself and asking questions about them. Frank continued his dubious conversation with the boy, whose name, he finally found out now, was Jonatán. Jonatán called him Mr Castle at first, and Frank managed to convey to him to call him Frank instead. Jonatán was oddly wide-eyed when he did.

“ _Nášupy!_ ” someone shouted; it turned out to mean “seconds”.

“Two weeks?” the pastor asked Adam, and by inclusion in speaking English, Duncan and Frank as well. “You could do it in one. So how much have you left?”

“Ten days. We just wander around, you know. I’ve always wanted to see more of the Highlands, but going off to one place for one day isn’t really so worth it.”

“Why not – we used to do it in Jeseníky. But still, two weeks!” He turned to Frank and asked, smiling: “Wouldn’t you want to see more of Europe now that you’re here?”

For a few moments, Frank didn’t know what to say, and then realised this definitely wasn’t what American tourists normally did when they got to visit Europe, and managed “I am seeing more of it.” The pastor said, thoughtfully, “True.”

They slept in beds that night; they went to sleep late, because there was singing in the dining hall in the evening. No songs Frank would know. Adam translated. It made the words cut deeper than songs Frank would know might have. Some of the words were unlike anything Frank had ever heard in any Christian songs; not any less Christian for it.

It rained in the night, as if the weather knew they had a roof over their heads this time, Duncan joked.

In the morning, there was breakfast and further conversation with Jonatán, who had a new set of questions, no doubt put together with an adult’s help.

“You know, you’ve just turned his world upside down,” Adam said after breakfast.

“How?”

“Offering to be on first name terms. It’s basically like an adult telling him to call him ‘ _ty_ ’, you know? Just like that.”

Cultural differences in interpersonal relationships: he had forgotten to count on that. But it did not seem he had made a mistake. He’d just caused a bit of hero worship in Jonatán. And strengthened it when he took out his Ka-Bar to improve on Jonatán and his friend Marek’s little “ _srub_ ” in the wood.

“ _Ty vago!_ ” Marek said, his eyes trained on the knife. He likely did not know what a Ka-Bar was. It was impressive enough for being a knife.

Frank was not sure how to deal with it. So he just went along with it. He spoke to them in English. They spoke to him in Czech. It wasn’t a way to lead a conversation, but Frank was quite grateful for it; the whole situation already reminded him of could have beens too much as it was.

When they heard the bell ringing and returned to scolding, and knowing and rather indulgent smiles of the boys’ mothers, Frank felt very unreal indeed. This could not be him.

Soup and a main course. Goodbyes; energetic handshakes from Jonatán and Marek.

Then the three of them walked down through the forest, the path becoming steeper and steeper, cutting across the winding road several times. Adam said to pick a stone, so they did. Down at the river, at the beginning of the trail, there was a mound of stones, commemorating Boy Scouts of all things. “Too democratic in this country,” Adam said, with an odd mixture of mockery and deep melancholy. Frank was not sure he understood. They each added their small pebbles to the multitude.

Then the river valley, water running over stones. A stony cutoff; Adam walked in and picked another pebble for some reason. The river was nothing compared to white waters Frank had seen; you could not even float a boat on this one, so small it was. Calling it “river” was almost laughable; there were creeks in the US at least twice as big as this. The path was marked. A pair of elderly hikers was coming from the other direction, greeting them. There were cottages. But the rocks were closing in steadily. A fallen tree across the path. More and more stones; more and more rocks, slick with last night’s rain. Fern and moss. Stony stairs. Then climb up a steep slope and onto a small rock standing tall amidst the trees; there were two iron rungs for climbing embedded in its side. Look over the railing and see nothing but forest and sky. Then back down; further over the stone, further up along the river: to the narrowest point, a trough, a small waterfall, water running over a tree trunk lodged between the boulders. Jump to the other side and, squatting down side by side, peer into the small green pool, the Giant Cauldron, in the rock. Jump back and walk on upstream. Watch a bird – dipper – hopping on the stones. Walk on as the river is slowly quieting down. Emerge on the other side of the tall stone arch of a railroad bridge. Swallows nesting in the small wooden shelter of a train stop. Wonder where you had just been.

It was nothing, really, right?

Then there came strange, breathtaking architecture. Churches of fascinating, unusual yet perfectly pleasing shapes. Frank had no idea what it was besides later remembering the name Santini. Adam had vague ideas. Duncan kept running around to see it from all angles, took hundreds of photos and waxed poetic about things Frank had had no idea existed.

Wind in the spruce trees. The cry of a buzzard and white clouds running overhead. A jay giving a screech of warning and firing away between the trees.

 

* * *

 

Frank had gone to collect more firewood, and as he circled through the trees with his eyes on the ground, he unwittingly returned back to the campsite, quietly enough that the two men did not notice him.

He had not wanted to listen, but he could not help it, and then could not stop.

“I see a pattern developing here,” Duncan said over the pan in which he was stirring something, probably the eggs they had bought earlier that day.

Adam did not reply anything, waiting for him to elaborate.

“You, me, and a Marine,” Duncan added.

“I’m not burying Joe if that’s what you’re worrying about,” Adam assured him.

Duncan looked up.

“So?” he asked.

“So what? You take me to be this weird antediluvian antisocial creature?”

Duncan snorted.

“No, not really,” he said. “All ideas like that present an intriguing mental image, but they’re not the guy I know.”

Adam smirked.

“Good,” he said.

“So instead of a mild-mannered Watcher, you pick up the Punisher...”

“You mean the mild-mannered Watcher who shot at Christine Salzer?”

Duncan snapped to him quickly, with surprise on his face quickly followed by a frown. “That hurt, you know.”

“Well, that’s my point. We’re neither of us harmless.”

“But...”

“But what? Want me to throw the first stone?”

“No,” Duncan deflated.

“Want to throw it yourself?”

“No!”

“So now we’ve established that, can we have the dinner?”

 

* * *

 

Blueberries and mushrooms he’d found while searching for dry wood. (“Couldn’t have brought those before I made the eggs, could you.” – “Shut up, MacLeod.”). Tea with stray pine needles. Sitting on a fallen log and getting resin smeared all over your backside. Stepping into an ants’ path. Other people coming, wanting to camp at the same place; he said “dobrý den” first, with some pride. No, no problem, there’s enough space for all, Adam said, apparently, and before Frank knew what was going on, they were on first name terms, shaking hands and saying “ahoj” rather than “dobrý den”.

“New York,” Frank said, and then they talked about the Scottish Highlands. “Ah, a Ka-Bar,” one of them said, and produced a different knife; they took turns throwing their knives into the growth rings of the log. Adam won. Frank placed second, but barely; the Ka-Bar was definitely not the best suited for throwing and the newcomers were good, too. “Boy Scouts,” they laughed by way of explanation, “sometimes Tramps, like right now.” Tramps: not what it means in English. People hiking in the countryside, woodcraft, that sort of thing. “Marines,” Frank said, and there was slightly more respect in their eyes afterwards, but not by much: if he’d been from the Canadian armed forces, the reaction would have probably been the same. They did not ask why he and Duncan were hiking in the Czech countryside: so were they, so why not? They’d been to Norway. Iceland. Kamchatka. There was a point of concurrence, but Frank had been in winter. “Must be crazy cold,” one of them said. “Was,” Frank replied, and they laughed and did not ask. “I know a guy goes to Antarktida every year,” one recalled instead, and then told that guy’s story about the grub at the Czech polar station in the Antarctic: you cook wheat bran or something like that, grease it generously with butter, and add sugar and cocoa powder. Looks awful, doesn’t probably taste all that better, but it uses supplies that are easy to store in bulk, it is warm and filling and gives you all the energy you need. “They call it some stupid name like 'volcano'.”

Sitting around the fire in the darkness, guitar and singing. About a third of the songs were more or less familiar, with different, Czech words; sometimes, he or Duncan or both joined in with the original lyrics. The rest of them sounded different and made his heart ache for some reason he did not understand; he laid back and gazed up at the stars so that he would not have to look in their faces and see whatever they saw in his. Somewhere there he drifted off into sleep; he woke when they finally stopped and moved to his sleeping mat and bag.

They headed opposite ways in the morning.

Tall proud castle among dark forested hills. A pair of ravens flying above the trees. Mushrooms. Blueberries.

They took a bus to a township where Adam showed the two of them places and told them stories from the past. There was an old Jewish quarter and a cemetery where his second pebble finally made sense. It was contemplative, tragic, deeply connected to Czech history and at the same time very personal. Then they sat in the square, looking at the statue in the middle, and somehow Frank knew they were friends, good friends at that, although he still knew next to nothing about them. He wondered what it meant. He wondered how he could be friends with them when they pretty much disagreed with what he did. But he found himself agreeing with them on related issues, on the importance of such issues. How did one reconcile it?

He wondered how exactly he would go on doing what he did after this experience. It wasn’t that his mind about that would have changed all that much. It was, rather, that his mind changed about many other things.

Then they walked on. A quarry that made a hill look like an amputee. A town nestled between steep hills. Walk down to the station. He caught a reflection of himself in a window: he’d grown a beard. They all had. They looked like tramps; they looked like Tramps. They boarded the train with a grandfather and a grandson who each had a basket of mushrooms; they went into another compartment. Adam immediately pulled down the window in theirs and looked out, and then snapped back with surprised laughter when, not long after the train had left the town, they entered a tunnel.

The train rode back through the Highlands, more or less along the way they had come, albeit without their winding around. The sun was slowly going down ahead, blinding Frank to everything but an odd quiet sense of accomplishment he did not fully understand. Part of it was the hike. Part of it was all the Czech Adam had managed to drill into him: hardly enough to understand conversations, but enough to catch what the announcements in the stations were saying, enough to have been able to buy their tickets. But part of it he still did not understand.

It had been a strange two weeks without any hurry and without any incidents. Frank had taken few photos and made few entries in the journal: just to remember the places and their names. This was not war, this was ceasefire. He had, in the end, carried the revolver at the bottom of his backpack (“pushing your luck without a licence,” Adam had said), and he had not once taken it out or missed it. And that was possibly the strangest thing of all.

This, Frank thought, had been exactly what Micro had been pressing him to do. What his trip to Sicily had so spectacularly failed to be.

He still had time ahead in Prague, before the date of the plane ticket he had bought. He wondered how safe it was to stay in one place like that, but the hike had somehow made him look forward to it.

**Author's Note:**

> " _Ty_ " is the familiar second person singular. " _Ty vago_ ", however, is just something along the lines of "wow!" " _Srub_ " is "log house", in this particular case probably not made of real logs...
> 
> Aside from the obviously fictional parts, mostly the people, it's all based on reality. The Highlands in question are the Bohemian-Moravian Highlands.  
> I think Duncan canonically likes that sort of thing. Methos embraces it as part of his Czech persona.  
> A Czech who's been to Iceland (several times) told a story about meeting a British (I think) photographer there, who said "You Czechs are a strange nation. I go to Iceland, middle of nowhere, I meet a group of people and you're Czech. Last year, I was in Borneo, jungle, middle of nowhere, I met a group of people and they were Czech!" The part where they meet the Boy Scouts / Tramps was, sort of, written in honour of such and similar Czechs. The bit about the grub on the Czech polar station I picked from a book by Marek Orko Vácha, a biologist, Roman Catholic priest and science communicator who got his middle name in a Boy Scout troop. He doesn't go to the Antarctic every year, but in the book, he does mention polar explorers who do.  
> ETA: I mixed it up; the book and the bit about the grub actually pertains to the Eco-Nelson international polar station (which was co-founded by Czech polar explorers) rather than the specifically Czech Mendel polar station. Let's ascribe it to alternate universes, shall we?


End file.
